


It's Like You Never Had Wings

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: "pre-slash", Angst, Gratuitous, Illuminati, M/M, Rape, Torture, We're sorry, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Illuminati meet to discuss a matter of great importance. Things go somewhat downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Like You Never Had Wings

**Author's Note:**

> [Hackedmotionsensors](http://hackedmotionsensors.tumblr.com/) drew a [comic.](http://hackedmotionsensors.tumblr.com/post/45486444388/big-dreams)
> 
> We were inspired. 
> 
> We're sorry.

The meeting had broken up; Steve headed for the door. He put on his coat as he went, planning how he intended to spend the rest of the day. It wasn’t quite noon. As he passed through the door, he thought he might find Tony and ask him if he wanted to have a late lunch…

And he stopped dead, his hand still on the doorknob, one foot still hovering over the threshold.

Tony.

My God.

He turned around and bolted back inside. Down the stairs, to the secret meeting chamber where he had only just been invited for the first time.

Blasted with horror, he stood rooted to the spot. "Oh my God." The words lacked any strength; he could barely get enough oxygen to say them at all.

Tony was still lying where they had left him, tied to the table, legs spread obscenely wide. The ropes were hardly glowing anymore; soon their enchantment would break and he would be able to rise. The edge of the table was still wet with blood and milky fluid. He was softly crying, his eyes closed. 

When he heard Steve speak, though, he went very still. "No," he pleaded. "Please. No more."

Steve turned on the spot and threw up. He heaved until he could bring nothing further up - and then he saw the blood that was still damp on his hand, and he retched again, choking on a horror that had no end.

Flashes of memory sparked behind his eyes. Things that had happened in this room. Things he had forgotten – would have forgotten completely, except that he had been thinking about Tony as he left this place, and maybe that was what had made all the difference, only it made no difference at all, because it was too late, far, far too late.

Tony's voice. _– This is the early draft of a bill that will hit the floor of the United States Congress in a month or two._

And then…what? Nothing. Just random images, sounds. Confusing. Impossible.

Horrifying.

Who had pulled the armor off? Who had thrown him down? Who had tied him this way, arms over his head, the enchanted rope stretching impossibly long down the length of the table to knot about the legs at one end? Who had bent his legs at the knee, looping the rope about his ankle, then his thigh, keeping him spread open for them? 

Himself – _“I go first,” Steve says. “I think I've earned that right.”_

He did, he –

 _\- He has. Earned it. Steve lets his hands roam over Tony’s body, winds the rope, feels himself tighten and harden and start to leak in his pants. He’s impatient, he almost abandons trussing him entirely when Tony gasps and he_ feels _it and his cock jumps and he flushes, dizzy with want, but it’s too important, the ropes (Tony needs to be restrained), and he gets his last ankle tied and then his hands are mercifully free to take care of himself. “Steve,” Tony says frantically, as if Steve still cares what he has to say, “fight it, whatever it - fight it.” It’s never been like this, he thinks, as he undoes his zipper, it’s Tony, it’s got to be Tony, Tony’s lip trembling as Steve swipes his fingers around inside the slick of his mouth, Tony’s pleas (feigned) when he slides a finger into the silky heat of his body. The words rolling off his tongue like he’s always intended to say them (he has), the thrill low in his belly when Tony curls his toes and pulls so hard his shoulders strain and he gasps, as desperate as Steve’s ever heard, “what are you_ doing _, god, Steve, please,_ Steve, _Jesus,_ DON’T-”

_\- It’s glorious, it’s everything he’s ever wanted, standing there, burying himself deeper and deeper in Tony’s body. He can’t imagine why he’s held back, why he’s denied himself this. It is obvious, so obvious, that Tony wants it too, the broken sounds he’s making as Steve’s flesh slaps against his, the way he stares, shocked into silence (for once), his eyes bright with unshed tears (good), the way he bites his lip and gasps and his voice breaks around Steve’s name –_

Walking out and he would have left, he would have _left_ , with Tony still lying there in blood and filth and he would never have known, never have remembered…

_\- The rest of them circle, like they can’t keep their bodies away, just until he’s done, each of them, waiting to take their turn, shifting and palming themselves in the dark. Meanwhile, Steve bites down into Tony’s perfect flesh, Steve revels in the way Tony moves and struggles like he has a chance of getting away, the way his eyes glimmer with fear and shame and betrayal, and when Steve comes, he comes like he hasn’t come in years while Tony trembles around him and pretends he doesn’t like it, having his insides painted with Steve’s mess -_

_\- Namor is next, quick to shift in as soon as Steve’s done, and he almost elbows Steve out of the way with a breathless half-snarl, “move, Captain.” He’s eager, just as eager as Steve, and he buries himself with his own brand of brutality and draws a strangled cry from Tony’s mouth, and Steve aches to be back inside him. Namor knows what he wants, squeezes Tony’s throat as he thrusts, his face screwed up with disgust and hatred until he spends himself with a self-satisfied groan -_

Cold with horror, he fumbled at his belt for the Swiss army knife he always carried. The blood on his hand screamed mutely at him, demanding that he look at it, that he remember what he did to put it there. His vision swam, the room blurring in a sudden rush of tears, so that he had to find the knife by touch alone.

Still blinking back tears, he cut the ropes, the enchantment sparking feebly as the blade sliced through them. And God, he hadn’t thought, had just charged blindly into action without considering the consequences of his actions. The instant the ropes were free, Tony slid off the table, limbs too weak and trembling to hold himself up. He landed heavily on the floor in a loose sprawl, and he cried out in agony before slumping down to lay on his side, not even seeming to care that he was lying in the spend of everyone who once called themselves his friend...

_\- Steve can’t keep his hands off himself, not when Stephen drifts in to take Namor’s place, not when he tests, first, with deft fingers to see how loose Tony has become. He slides in, muttering under his breath, some incantation, some string of obscenities that makes Tony’s eyes widen and his head knock back against the table, and then Stephen bends low over his body and clamps his hand tight over Tony’s mouth. Steve watches, lazy and sated and still impossibly aroused, as Tony turns his head and stares with his blue eyes brimming with tears (good), as he whimpers against Stephen’s palm and his chest heaves with panic. Stephen is lost, and his motion changes from clinical efficiency to the deep pistoning of a focused man, deep and calculated and enough to make Tony flinch and keen behind his palm -_

The sight of Tony lying on the floor, so still despite his terrible trembling, was another knife twist in Steve’s heart. He dropped to one knee and quickly pulled Tony into his arms. “Don’t,” he breathed, like it was somehow Tony’s fault that he was too broken to even drag himself out of the mess on the floor.

Tony twisted once in his arms, trying to break free, before he gave up and slumped back to lie against Steve’s chest. He shuddered, his breath coming in short, stuttering gasps. Steve tried to loosen his grasp, tried not to even touch him at all with his bloodied left hand, tried not to scream out his grief and horror and guilt.

He wanted to march out of there right then, take Tony out of this room and never come back. But he had to make it right - God, he had to - and that meant doing it _right_. If he left here now, without the armor, Tony would never forgive him.

The thought made him want to laugh hysterically. As if Tony would ever forgive him anyway...

_\- Tony is dripping, by the time Black Bolt steps up to make use of his body. He’s big, Steve notes, as he strides into place and lines himself up, big enough for Tony to sob and swear when he braces himself on the table and thrusts in. Tony is sloppy now, slick enough for Black Bolt’s movements to be audible in the thick silence of the meeting room, even over Steve’s breathing as he works his hand and Namor’s panting that still hasn’t subsided. Black Bolt is silent as always, but he claws at the wood, his whole body is trembling as his rhythm grows more erratic, and then he opens his mouth, the slightest of whispered grunts escaping his lips, and Tony screams and cracks his head against the table -_

_\- “Stop,” Tony is whimpering, and his nose is bleeding and there’s blood blossoming in the white of one of his eyes, but Black Bolt is gone, he slams into Tony’s body like it’s all it’s good for, silences him with a blow to the cheek. Tony screams out a sob, but he stops talking, lies there like he’s dead, and Steve can’t help but be a little disappointed (it was better when he struggled) but it’s fine, he’s still crying, at least. Steve smiles and sighs and works his hand faster when Black Bolt wraps a hand around Tony’s balls and twists and Tony screams loud enough for the both of them -_

He would have to set Tony down in order to collect the armor, but he couldn’t let him just lie there on the floor. He stood up, and gently laid him down on the table.

Tony arched up, his head thrashing from side to side. “No,” he pleaded. “No. Steve,” barely coherent, more choked whimpers than real words, “Don’t. Please. Please...” He began to cry again, and too late -- _too late_ \- Steve realized his mistake.

The urge to sink to the floor and sob was overwhelming. Despite the horror of the situation, and his desperation to take care of Tony, the terrible need to understand what had happened was growing stronger and stronger. With every memory that returned, his shock and horror grew until it threatened to overcome him.

He had to get out of here. He could not stay strong while he remained in this room that stank of blood and sex, while the sound of Tony’s fearful cries rang in his ears, while Tony’s blood was drying on his hand. The need for haste blunted his actions, stifled his words. A better man would have taken the time to reassure Tony that this was not a prelude to another rape. Instead Steve just peeled off his coat, draped it carelessly over Tony’s body, and began to hunt down the scattered pieces of the armor.

Tony did not speak while Steve moved about the room. He just lay there passively, his eyes huge and fixed on nothing, silently crying. He did not try to curl up, or cover himself better with the coat, and that was somehow the worst thing of all, that he could have been rendered so passive, so quick to submit.

"It's all right," Steve said. It wasn't, of course, and it never would be, but he had to pretend. It was the only way he was going to make it through this. "It's going to be all right."

_\- Reed sidles along the table, tilts Tony’s head to the side and cocks his head like he’s inspecting something in one of his labs, pries Tony’s mouth open with his thumb. “No,” Tony rasps, like he still can’t believe what’s happening, “Reed, n-” but then he’s climbing onto the table in an awkward pile of limbs even as T’Challa is stepping up to where Black Bolt was standing minutes before. T’Challa pulls his mask off and there’s sweat shining on his temples, and he licks his lips and slicks himself with the mess that’s collecting at the edge of the table and dripping down over the molding. He slides in, his face the picture of composure, because T’Challa is a king and this is simply what Tony is for now -_

_\- Reed holds Tony’s head between his enormous hands, his legs spread wider than is probably normal, his face screwed up in concentration. Tony is saying something, begging, and then he’s not, and Reed tilts his head back and sighs, and Steve can hear Reed’s ridiculous little grunts and the obscene gurgle of Tony’s throat working around his cock -_

_\- Tony is wheezing and sobbing when Reed sits back on his heels and pulls out of Tony’s mouth with a squelch, looking impossibly bigger than he did when he started. T’Challa works, still, steady and impassive and restrained until the very end, and then he bows his head and groans thick in his throat -_

He shuddered, shoving the armor back into the slender briefcase with far more force than was necessary, as though he could push the memories out of his head if he could just push hard enough. He looped the handle about his wrist, then walked back to the table.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.” He reached out to gather Tony into his arms, and Tony cringed back, uttering a faint, broken whimper as he tried to pull away. He was still crying, his eyes red and swollen, and Steve almost couldn’t hear him as he whispered, “Why? Why, Steve?”

He might have been asking why it had to happen to him, or why it had happened at all. Or why Steve had been the first to step forward, why Steve had been so eager through it all. It didn’t really matter which question was asking.

Steve had no answers for any of them.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice broke, and he could not go on. Not like this. Not here. Nausea churned in his stomach, and he resisted the urge to be sick again as memory sparked...

 _\- Charles sits, and there’s a look in his eyes that Steve hasn’t seen there before, but he understands, focus and desire and indomitable power. Tony is still gasping from Reed when Charles raises a hand, experimentally, almost, brings it up to where Tony is swollen and pink and leaking viscous white, and_ strokes _. Steve watches, as Tony squeezes his eyes shut as if it will help, but he snaps them open and stills, gasping, when it’s Charles’ fingers breaching him instead of someone’s cock. When Charles almost smiles and jerks his wrist, he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, but it’s not enough to stifle the noises he can’t seem to stop, the frantic whining that’s coming from the back of his throat -_

 _\- Charles pivots his wrist, enraptured, and Tony is sobbing even as he’s hardening a little, and Steve needs to touch him again, needs to feel him shaking apart under his hands, needs to, it’s not enough to watch, as thrilling as it is to watch Charles’ hand disappear inside Tony’s body. He’s ready, he is so very ready to climb up on the table and lose himself in the bliss of Tony’s throat, but Namor is there, already, undoing his scales all the way so he can straddle Tony’s chest, and Steve bristles and growls low in his throat, because as much as he wants to watch Tony choke on Namor’s cock, he wants Tony to choke on_ his _more -_

He buried his face in his hands, forced himself to take deep breaths. When he could speak again, he said, “It's all right." As though he could make it all better through the sheer force of his will.

"We'll find them. Whoever did this. It was a spell, Tony, you have to know that's what it was. We… I wouldn't…" He nearly choked on the cold rage settling in the back of his head, and finally, thank you God, there was the anger he so desperately needed. Anger gave him focus, gave him something to hold on to. He would find whoever had done this, whoever had made him – all of them – forget who they were, forget that they were good men, all of them, yes all of them, and instead turned them into men capable of doing _this_. 

_\- Steve taps T’Challa on the shoulder. T’Challa turns around in a huff, but Steve doesn’t care, he just holds T’Challa’s hand up to his own, but it’s not big enough, not as thick as his. Black Bolt is bigger, taller, and when Steve grabs his wrist and holds it up and imagines the noises Tony will make when they’re both inside him, he feels a warm runnel of precome slide over his other hand-_

_\- “No,” Tony is saying, his chest heaving as he sobs uncontrollably, “fuck, just stop, just,” because Namor has climbed off of his face and he can talk again. He looks gorgeous, Steve thinks, as Charles rolls out of the way and Tony quivers on the table, open and leaking with his nipples pebbled in the cold, his eyes red and raw, Namor’s spend dripping out the corners of his mouth. “Steve,” Tony says, and it’s a hysterical whine, high-pitched and raw, and Steve thinks his eyes roll back into his head for a minute because Tony’s_ voice -

_\- It’s not slow like it should be, Steve can’t wait, he’s desperately hard and he needs this (Tony needs this), and he stands, coaxes most of his hand in, and waits, as Black Bolt swipes his through the glistening mess all over Tony’s thighs and does the same. Tony screams, and Steve wiggles in a bit deeper, works himself with his other hand, listens to Tony grating his throat raw and smells the tang of copper. “Look at me,” Steve says, and his voice is rougher than it is commanding, but Tony looks. Looks at Steve, his mouth curled into a snarl, his eyes entirely destroyed, and Steve closes his fingers into a fist beside Black Bolt’s and comes all over his own hand as Tony wails -_

Steve turned and staggered into the corner, where he was noisily sick again. He could hear himself sobbing, retching, but he could not stop for all the world. He would never be rid of the horrifying realization of what he had done, never be rid of the guilt.

It took a long time to be able to stand up straight. To breathe without sobbing. He wiped his hand on his jeans, but it didn’t matter; the blood was dry by now and not coming off.

It was never coming off.

Slowly he turned around. Tony had stopped crying, but he was still shaking and trembling. He had not moved from where Steve had placed him on the table. If he had heard Steve being sick, he made no sign of it.

It was past time to leave this place. Steve reached out again, then hesitated. Duty dictated what he said next, although it was not what he wanted. "We should go to the hospital."

Immediately Tony shook his head.

"You need a doctor," Steve tried.

Tony shook his head again, faster this time. "Please," he whispered.

Steve had expected this, but he still could not let it rest. Not until he was sure. "Can Extremis…can it heal you?"

Now Tony nodded. Tears spiked his eyelashes, and still he would not look at Steve.

"Okay," Steve said, giving in, because it was what he wanted, too. Going to the hospital meant letting people see Tony like this, see what they had done to him, see what _Steve_ had done to him. "I'll just take you home."

Carefully, doing his best not to cause Tony any more pain than necessary, he slid his arms beneath Tony’s shoulders, his knees. As gentle as he was, though, Tony still moaned when Steve picked him up and began carrying him out of the room.

Tony had flown him here this morning, just a few hours ago, before Steve had known how much of a monster he could be. That was obviously out of the question now. And not every member of the Illuminati could fly. Still others came from far away. To accommodate their various needs, Reed and Tony had built an antechamber down the hall, where each man could step onto a ringed platform and quickly teleport home. Steve had not bothered to use the platform earlier, since they had met in New York this time, and he only had to cross the city in order to reach the Avengers Mansion. Now, however, he had no choice. His only concern was getting Tony home as quickly and as safely as possible.

Carrying both his burdens, he stepped onto the platform.

White light enveloped him, and then he was standing in the far corner of Tony’s lab.

There were cameras in here, but he would deal with that later. He let the suitcase with the armor clatter to the floor, not caring where it landed. He had brought it back and now it was insignifcant.

“Just a little bit further,” he said. Tony did not speak. He just lay there in Steve’s arms, his head turned away, still shaking like a leaf.

Luck was with him; he met no one as he took the elevator to the top floor, where Tony's bedroom was. No one saw. No one knew.

Except for him.

He had been in Tony’s bedroom before, but only once or twice. It felt like the grossest sort of violation to be in here now, after everything he had done. Away from that room and its horrors, the guilt was that much harder to push aside, the rage that much harder to ignore. He wanted to scream, to hit something, to make someone bleed.

Then he remembered that he _had_ made someone bleed, and it was all he could do not to vomit again.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’re here.” He laid Tony down on the bed. Immediately Tony curled up as tightly as he could.

Steve pulled his coat off him, and dropped it on the floor. It was his favorite, but already he had mentally discarded it; it was fit for nothing now but incineration. But he could not leave Tony lying there, naked and trembling, blood and come spattered over his body like some horrible abstract painting. He reached for the bedspread and awkwardly worked it out from beneath Tony, then covered him with it. "I'll run a bath," he said. "Do you think you can…?"

And for the first time since Steve had stepped back into that room, Tony looked at him. Extremis was already healing the damage to his body, but his eyes, oh God, the look in his eyes would haunt Steve until his dying day. "Just go," Tony said, and his voice was as dead as his spirit. "Leave me alone."

He had to go, yes, he had to find the other Illuminati, find out if they remembered anything, if any of them were staring puzzled and alarmed at blood on their hands. He had to find the ones responsible for this and make them pay.

But first, he had to try one more time. He had to. "Tony, please."

"Leave me alone," Tony repeated. The words were hollow, broken. There wasn’t enough left of him to turn them into a command.

Steve accepted them as such anyway. It was the only thing he could do.

He told himself that he would make this right somehow. Even if he didn't know how yet. "All right," he whispered. He turned around and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Alone, he stood in the hallway. He bowed his head, closed his eyes.

_Steve straightens. “Gentlemen,” he says, boneless and suddenly exhausted._

_The rest of them look similarly spent. Stephen braces himself on the wall with one hand, Reed looks mildly deflated, Charles as if he might fall asleep. Tony has gone silent (it’s just as well, they’re done, there’s no expediency to be had in hearing him scream now), but Namor looks agitated, and he picks his head up at Steve’s words and bares his teeth._

_“No,” Namor says, and his mouth is still cruel even for how slack it’s gone, “I’m not -”_

_“We’re done,” Steve says firmly._

_It’s enough, and Namor straightens, fixes his armor. “Fine,” he says curtly, and lets himself out. The rest of them fix their costumes, drift out one by one, absently adjusting themselves, pulling on masks, leaving as colleagues._

_“Good day.”_

_“Farewell.”_

_“Captain.”_

_Steve is the last to go, and he spares a last glance at Tony’s filthy body on the table before he slips out the door._


End file.
